


Gaslight Compendium

by GuardianOfTheGates



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Crack, Gen, Humor, Long-Suffering Watson, M/M, Misusage of Moustaches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6841102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianOfTheGates/pseuds/GuardianOfTheGates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dispatch box for an assortment of short ficlets and 221bs. Chapter 1: Holmes has a clever plan which the doctor strongly objects to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaslight Compendium

**Title:** Butchery

**Summary:** Holmes has a clever plan which the doctor strongly objects to.

**A/N:** This was originally a scene I intended to scrap from an old fic that was far too verbose, but when I realized it was 221 words exactly, decided to make a few tweaks so it could be read as a standalone.

~*~

“This is intolerable, Holmes,” my companion protested as I stalked towards him with glistening razor, an evil glint in my eye.

“I daresay it cannot be helped. Assuredly, it shall hurt me more than it does you.”

“I won’t stand for it!” He shrank backwards, outraged at the atrocity I meant to commit.

“Do hold still, there’s a good fellow,” said I, testily, approaching from the side, surveying my quarry.

“What if I object?”

He dodged, preventing the first stroke from making contact with flesh.

“Then I deem it overruled.”

“That’s very undiplomatic of you.”

“Watson,” I sighed with no little impatience, setting razor upon the sink’s edge, “one would get the impression I was attempting to commit the foulest murder against my fellow-lodger with the way you are carrying on over such a trifle.”

“The removal of facial whiskers is no airy nothing,” said he, resolvedly.

“We cannot infiltrate a Gentleman Forgers Club in our own personas, and that moustache of yours is likely to give the game away.”

Narrowly avoiding striking my head on the toilet tank under which my companion was perched in the cramped water closet, I moved stealthily forward.

“It can always be dyed ginger,” he suggested, desperately.

“I should much prefer to have you shaved.”

Watson shut his eyes in anticipation. “This is unconscionable butchery.”


End file.
